


The Rhythm Of Denouement

by valsedenuit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock needs a haircut, footrubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valsedenuit/pseuds/valsedenuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were quite a pair - restless, although in different ways - and this was the rhythm of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rhythm Of Denouement

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little fluff piece, complete with cheesy ending. Unbeta'd and un-Britpicked. 
> 
> Written or abbykate, who is feeling down. She said: "I want domesticity; making dinner, watching a movie, reading, etc. I want a meandering conversation about Sherlock's hair that may or may not devolve into foot-rubs and sex. Or sex and then foot-rubs."
> 
> Hope this satisfies that craving.

If John gained anything after the war, it was a sense of rhythm.

Not in the sense that he as a better dancer (on the contrary, he was still rather terrible at it), but rather, in the sense that he actually _sensed rhythm_ \- the small measures of existence, the cadency ingrained in natural processes, the patterns no one really ever notices or escapes.

John thought it probably because what he saw in Afghanistan had been the opposite of rhythm. A dizzying arrhythmia; an uncertainty that gnawed at a soldier’s resolve like slow-burning acid. The illusion of militaristic order had glossed over the warm, sticky chaos, even as it rushed out of the young bodies strewn haphazardly on the ground. John, hands and brain moving quickly, had been like a conductor of a rogue orchestra – desperately trying to regain the tempo of things as each instrument screeched, disregarding any semblance of order towards which it was directed. Bodies were normally such rhythmic entities, but death’s grip changed a body’s tempo as often John changed his shirt.

John, pouring the freshly-boiled water into two waiting mugs, glanced over at Sherlock from his spot by the stove. The latter was sprawled on the couch, stretched out on his side with the majority of his robe dangling off the edge. His eyes were glued to the laptop on the coffee table. John could hear Maggie Smith’s voice wafting out of the tinny laptop speakers – Downton Abbey again, then. He also noticed that every few seconds, Sherlock would make a tiny head movement, flicking back the floppy bit of fringe that inevitable slid across his forehead and into his eyes.

"You know," John offered, "you could just get a haircut."

"Unnecessary."

It had been a week and a half since they'd returned from Baskerville. The first few days had been incredibly indulgent – the habitual post-case binge on food, sex, and sleep – but Sherlock had still been working at a mile-a-minute pace. Although he’d never admit it to his flatmate, John liked Sherlock best once he’d reached his current state: calm and sated. Normally tetchy with boredom and needing constant physical or stimulation, the detective was, for about a week post-case, the most placid man in Britain.

It was here, in the calm and grounding downbeat in his new and otherwise hectic life, that John took note of small rhythms and basked in them. The voices on the telly, the tapping of boiling water on an aluminum kettle, the trivial banter and London traffic and a breeze rattling the windows… this was their baseline. The heartbeat of 221b.

“Although,” John continued, removing the tea pouches from both mugs, “our female clients do seem to love it. Remember that one girl – Melissa, I think her name was? Asked me afterward what conditioner you used, wanted it for herself.”

“Hmmm,” was the reply.

John sometimes felt like a bit of a fool carrying on one-sided conversations like this, but he was used to it now. Sherlock's brain was processing the new information it had collected in the previous weeks. It whirred away silently, not with the manic fervor of puzzle-solving, but the slow, methodical pattern of reflection on past events. John could sense its tempo, though, slow as it was. The meticulous workings of a genius' mind had a particular resonance, one that bounced off the walls and beat against John skin. It was almost a physical sensation.

Sherlock was also at his most agreeable - perhaps only a few sarcastic comments per day, and he ate the meals John prepared or purchased for them - and John took it in stride. It was a mini-vacation from his partner’s usually maddening stubbornness.

"Budge up a bit," John said, gesturing with his hip. Both his hands were preoccupied with their mugs.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound, but brought his knees up to his chest nonetheless, leaving enough space for John to park himself at the end of the couch. John sank in and leaned far forward to set the mugs on the table. No sooner had he straightened back up that Sherlock promptly stretched out again, his pyjama bottoms riding up his calves and his bare feet now in John's lap. His shirt had rucked up a bit when he'd moved his legs, too, leaving a pale strip of skin exposed. John ran his index finger along it, relishing in the fact that his hand wasn’t immediately swatted away.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the computer screen. John wasn’t a big fan of Downton, but Sherlock loved it. It wasn't for the thrill of the scandal or the political intrigue (of course not - he'd figured out the characters’ secrets within ten minutes of the program starting), but they owned the first two seasons, which Sherlock often watched on repeat after a case. The familiarity of it, the pattern and predictability of the characters’ reactions soothed him, allowed him to busy his subconscious while he let mind roam. John also suspected he had a bit of a crush on Mary, but he’d never admit to it.

"You might not care about your hair,” John argued “but if you let it grow any longer you'll be suffering frequent neck injuries. That, or clients will start calling you Shirley."

"They wouldn't dare." Sherlock sounded slightly affronted, but didn’t even bother to look up. His bony feet tapped out a beat in midair. John reached down and picked one up in his hands. It was cold and angular, like the rest of Sherlock, yet the squishiness of his toes tugged at John’s heartstrings, the sentimental fool that he was. John ran his fingers along the center, then began applying pressure outwards, working the muscle there.

Sherlock barely moved, but his body, formerly stiff and angular from a day's brainwork, now seemed to sink into every crevice, warm and pliant like putty that has just been handled. His eyes were still fixed on the television screen, but every once in a while they'd flutter closed, just for a moment. If John listened carefully he could also detect a soft, muted, contented sigh on every other breath, the unconscious sounds of this child-man in his lap as he let himself be molded into repose.

They were quite a pair - restless, although in different ways - and this was the rhythm of their lives. It was the buzz of the laptop and the motion of footrubs. It was the steady flow of two breaths in sync and the strangest conversations, rising and falling in a steady cadence, words falling out on bated breaths and lilting in the air. It was rapid footfalls and the rustle of a coat and the rush of traffic around them. John sometimes wondered if Sherlock could feel it too, as intensely as he did, skittering across his skin and digging into his muscles and timing itself with the beat of his pulse. It was only in these moments, after the climax but before the intrigue, that all these things were audible him, to the faculties he possessed beyond the shrewd and unwavering perception of his heart.

"Do you want me to call the barber tomorrow?" he asked.

"No."

John put Sherlock's foot down, lifted himself up slightly from the cushions, and wriggled his way behind Sherlock, sneaking his right arm underneath his ribs and wrapping him in a hug from behind. He was too short to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and so couldn't see the laptop screen. He didn't mind - he rested his nose and forehead against the crevice between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

"Are you afraid of it looking silly?" he asked.

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Of course not."

"Then why won’t you cut your hair? What’s the problem?"

John felt the hitch in Sherlock's breath rather than heard it - his stomach sucked in, his pulse increased and John could feel it beat away under his fingers as he ran them under Sherlock's shirt and up the length of his torso.

"It isn't relevant," the detective muttered.

"Come on, Sherlock. I won't laugh."

"If you must know,” said Sherlock with a sigh, “when we... sometimes you... pull it a bit and it's very… effective."

His voice was controlled, but his pulse continued to rise and his skin was warming up considerably. John smirked into Sherlock’s robe, and ran his index finger in a circle around Sherlock’s nipple. The latter squirmed, pushing his arse further into John’s lap.

Oh, there it was: the hint of an upbeat.

"Ah. Well, they don't need to cut it all off," John said, craning his neck to run his lips along Sherlock’s nape. He dragged his mouth along the edge of Sherlock’s hair, his warm breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

"You could ask them to trim it around the edges, keep a bit of the length," John added. He hugged Sherlock close, pushing their bodies together from shoulders to ankles. He brought his hand up and tugged at Sherlock's curls, rocking his hips in a slow, deep grind into Sherlock's arse, dragging his now half-hard cock along the dip there.

"I'll let you decide,” John said, in a whisper, taking Sherlock’s earlobe in between his teeth, “whether to tell them that it's so your boyfriend can pull your head back while he fucks you."

Sherlock sighed deeply, his breath shaky as it left his body, and John grinned. Even this had a distinct regularity to it. They were quite the pair - never without a hint of cadence - and if John was sure that if he looked very closely, he could find their particular rhythmic notation etched into the very walls of 221b. He kept meaning to find it, but somehow... he always got distracted.


End file.
